


Maybe Tomorrow

by anr



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-11
Updated: 2004-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-23 03:52:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anr/pseuds/anr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can you really do this?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS: Grace (7x13)  
> SONGOGRAPHY: "Tomorrow" (Avril Lavigne), "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" (Jane Taylor)

  


* * *

  


  
_And I know, I'm not ready_   
_Hey yeah, yeah, hey yeah, yeah_   
_Maybe tomorrow_   


  


* * *

  


Even though you don't ask, Janet keeps the infirmary lights dim in your section anyway. It's cliche, you know, to systematically make your way through the post-concussion syndrome roll call, but you can't help it. Sometimes you just have to follow the curve and be pathetically grateful for the little things.

Like the fact that, despite some light and noise intolerance, your headaches have pretty much disappeared and you're starting to sleep a little better now.

"Hey," says Janet on cue, approaching your bed and grabbing your chart.

"Hey," you agree, finding the wall-clock on the other side of the infirmary and frowning a little at the hour, "shouldn't you be going home?"

Without even glancing at its contents, Janet hugs the chart to her chest and smiles. "On my way, as it happens. How're you feeling?"

Janet knows the laundry list better than you ever will, so you just shrug a little and offer up a tired smile and say, "bored."

Another smile as Janet returns your chart to the end of the bed. "Three more days," she says cheerfully, "and you can go home."

You frown. "One."

" _Three_ ," says Janet firmly, "but if you're willing to barter I can offer up four?"

A quick, complaisant smile. "Three's good."

Janet laughs a little and nods. "I'll see you tomorrow," she says, touching your hand before moving away, "get some rest."

"Goodnight," you call out as she leaves the room, a backward wave your reply, and if you listen hard enough, you can just hear her footsteps fading down the corridor as she walks away.

Exhaling slowly, you close your eyes and try to drift.

  


* * *

  


With the exception of some faint acoustic singing--that may or may not be another post-concussion syndrome symptom--Grace stays _physically_ gone.

Or she's hiding under the bed. You've yet to work out which.

Either way, you're left to your own devices sotospeak; bedridden and bored and maybe just a _tiny_ bit depressed... but after four days alone on an empty space-ship with nothing but Id-hallucinations and a head injury to keep you company--where said company was rarely fun-filled--that's certainly not surprising.

Let go. Not real. Save yourself. Be happy. Do nothing.

Apparently your subconscious is a Hallmark spokesperson-in-training.

Still, at least there were bubbles, you think, and smile as Grace sings you off to sleep. Under the bed, after all.

"In the dark blue sky you keep, and often through my curtains peep, for you never shut your eye, till the sun is in the sky..."

  


* * *

  


The Colonel returns after breakfast, smiling brightly and looking like everything is a-ok and freakin' fantastic in the world now that you're back. And regardless of your newfound better judgement, his glow is contagious--and sweet--so you smile back as he makes his way to your side.

"Contraband," he announces cheerily, dumping a navy and gold sports bag into your hands as he perches himself on the edge of the nearby chair. "Thought you might be bored."

Your eyebrows raise but it's with an eager grin that you unzip the bag and rifle through the contents. The four manilla folders, sheafs of paper peeling from the edges, catch your attention first. "You brought me work?" you ask, flicking through the half-completed reports and analyses you'd been working on before your Prometheus trip, not sure if you should be pleased--which, ok, you _are_ \--or dubious--this is, after all, the guy who's always telling you to take time off.

Eyes roll as he takes the bag back from you, delving inside himself. "Christ, Carter. A bag full of goodies and _that's_ what grabs your attention?"

Amused, you watch him empty the bag one item at a time, identifying each just in case your eyes have wandered away during the night.

"Let's see... we've got some magazines--I know you said you were good, but I figured that might've been the disorientation speaking--"

You smile a little more. "What, no yo-yo?"

"Turns out the yo-yo went partying last night and, as a result, now needs a stringoctomy."

"Sounds complex," you say.

With a whip-crack grin, the Colonel says, "not really," and hands you the magazine collection. _Astronomy & Astrophysics_, _American Scientist_ , _MAD Magazine_.

"MAD Magazine?"

" _Great_ articles," promises the Colonel, delving deeper now.

You nod and wait.

"Teal'c's gameboy--he made me swear, though, that if you beat level six you'd show him how."

"I will."

"Chess board with little magnetic pieces--Daniel's idea. Said he'd come by later and play a game. Oh! And some of that chocolate you reckon you wouldn't kill for but we all know better."

Your cheeks are starting to hurt from grinning so you temper the expression into a pleased smile. "Thank you, Sir," you say as, inventory complete, he stuffs the items and magazines back into the bag, leaving out only the files.

He shrugs, a smile of his own stretching across his features. "No problem."

In the comfortable pause that follows, you find yourself regretting, not for the first time, the decision you've now made to try and move on. Can you really do this? Just give up? Give up on _him_? _Really_?

And for a second you're back on the Prometheus, hallucinating, and his lips are warm on yours, his fingers threading through your hair. You can feel the calluses on his palm where it touches your cheek and his tongue is slicking against yours in a way that--

Now you're regretting that as well. Regretting that it never happened and that it wasn't _real_.

_You can't do this_ , you think.

The Colonel coughs a little and rises from the chair. "I'd better go," he says, "before the nurses catch me in here again." He nods goodbye. "See you 'round, Carter."

Your fingers find the files on your lap and you watch him walk away. "Colonel?"

Half out the door, he nonetheless halts instantaneously, body quirking back in your direction. "Yeah?"

"Do you remember Antarctica?"

"Antarctica?" he repeats, brow furrowing.

"Yeah," you clear your throat and look down. "The first time, I mean."

His voice is cautious. "Parts of it."

"That first night?" you push, still not looking at him.

Silence, long and taut now, stretches from doorway to hospital bed. Finally, barely, you hear his answer. "Yeah." Then louder. "Yeah, I remember it, Carter."

You lick your lips and tighten your grip on the files. "I lied that night," you confess quietly, a soft, "Sir," tacked on the end in after-thought.

To his credit, he doesn't play dumb. No cracks about sidearms or the cold. Instead, you hear a noise that could be a sigh and look up to find him scrubbing his face with one hand, the other locked to the doorframe. Another burst of silence, still tense, hovers as the hand drops and he looks into the hallway.

"We all have regrets, Sam," he tells the corridor slowly, obviously picking his words very, very carefully. "It's human nature."

You swallow hard and nod. "Yes, Sir."

His gaze skitters back to yours ever-so-briefly. "See you later, Carter," he says.

Disappointed, somehow, you nevertheless bob your head again. "Goodbye, Colonel."

You watch him leave then close your eyes and try like hell to let go.

"Hey, Carter?" Opening your eyes, you're just in time to see a half-smile slipping across his lips as he leans back round the doorway and waves an indiscriminate hand towards the files. "Don't let the docs catch you with those," he says.

There are a hundred, thousand reasons why you care for this man. Carefully, and despite the fact that you should be trying to let go _of_ those reasons, you label this as a hundred-thousand and one.

"Yes, Sir."

He nods, waves, and disappears again. Opening up the first file, you smile.

Nobody said you had to start trying _today_.

  


* * *

The End

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL URL: <http://anr.livejournal.com/102953.html>


End file.
